The Last Song Liley Edition
by fullmoonarising
Summary: I am not good with summeries, this is based off the book The Last Song
1. Chapter 1

**Hey guys, thanks to Satan's Camero we are gonna clean up these chapters that I do have up.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own The Last Song Nicholas Sparks does, nor do I own Hannah Montana **

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**The Last Song**

**Prologue**

Staring out the bedroom window, Miley wondered whether Pastor Harris was already at the church. She assumed that he was, and as she watched the waves breaking over the beach, she questioned whether he was able to notice the play of light as it streamed through the stained-glass window above him. Perhaps not, the window had been installed more than a month ago, after all, and he was probably too preoccupied to notice anymore. Still, she hoped that someone new in town had stumbled into the church this morning and experienced the same sense of wonder she'd had when she'd first seen the light flood the church on that cold day in November. And she hoped the visitor had taken some time to consider where the window had come from and to admire its beauty.

She'd been awake for an hour, but she wasn't ready to face the day. The holidays felt different this year. Yesterday, she'd taken her younger brother, Jackson, for a walk down the beach. Here and there were Christmas trees on the decks of the houses they passed. At this time of year, they had the beach pretty much to themselves, but Jackson showed no interest in either the waves or the seagulls that had fascinated him only a few months earlier. Instead, he'd wanted to go to the workshop, and she'd taken him there, although he'd stayed only a few minutes before leaving without saying a single word.

On the bed stand beside her lay a stack of framed photographs from the alcove of the small beach house, along with other items she'd collected that morning. In the silence, she studied them until she was interrupted by a knock on the door. Her mom poked her head in. "Do you want breakfast? I found some cereal in the cupboard."

"I'm not hungry, mom."

"You need to eat sweetie."

Miley continued to stare at the pile of photos, seeing nothing at all. "I was wrong, mom. And I don't know what to do now."

"You mean about your dad?"

"About everything."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

When Miley didn't answer, her mom crossed the room and sat beside her. "Sometimes it helps if you talk. You've been so quiet these last couple of days."

For an instant, Miley felt a crush of memories overwhelm her: the fire and subsequent rebuilding of the church, the stained-glass window, the song she finally finished. She thought about Mikayla and Oliver and Rico. She thought about Lilly. She was eighteen years old and remembering the summer she'd been betrayed, the summer she'd been arrested, the summer she'd fallen in love. It hadn't been so long ago, yet sometimes she felt that she'd been an altogether different person back then. Miley sighed. "What about Jackson?"

"He's not here. Brian took him to the shoe store. He's like a puppy. His feet are growing faster than the rest of him."

Miley smiled, but her smile faded quickly as it had come. In the silence that followed, she felt her mom gather her long hair and twist it into a loose ponytail on her back. Her mom had been doing that ever since Miley was a little girl. Strangely, she still found it comforting. Not that she'd ever admit it, of course. "I'll tell you what," her mom went on. She went to the closet and put the suitcase on the bed. "Why don't you talk while you pack?"

"I wouldn't even know where to start."

"How about at the beginning? Jackson mentioned something about turtles?"

Miley crossed her arms, knowing the story hadn't started there. "Not really," she said. "Even though I wasn't there when it happened, I think the summer really began with the fire."

"What fire?"

Miley reached for the stack of photographs on the bed stand and gently removed a tattered newspaper article sandwiched between two framed photos. She handed the yellowing newsprint to her mother. "This fire," she said. "The one at the church."

**Illegal Fireworks Suspected in Church Blaze**

**Pastor Injured**

**Wrightsville Beach, NC-- A fire destroyed historic First** **Baptist Church on New Year's Eve, and investigators suspect illegal fireworks. Firefighters were summoned by an anonymous caller to the beachfront church just after midnight and found flames and smoke pouring from the back of the structure, said Tim Ryan, chief of the Wrightsville Beach Fire Department. The remains of a bottle rocket, an airborne firework, were found at the source of the blaze. Pastor Charlie Harris was inside the church when the fire started and suffered second-degree burns to his arms and hands. He was transported to New Hanover Regional Medical Center and is currently in the intensive care unit. It was the second church fire in as many months in New Hanover County. In November, Good Hope Covenant Church in Wilmington was completely destroyed. "Investigators are still treating it as suspicious, and as a case of potential arson at this point," Ryan noted. Witnesses report that less than twenty minutes before the fire, bottle rockets were seen being launched on the beach behind the church, likely in celebration of the New Year. "Bottle rockets are illegal in North Carolina, and are especially dangerous considering the recent drought conditions," cautioned Ryan. "This fire shows the reason why. A man is in the hospital and the church is a total loss."**

When her mom finished reading, she looked up, meeting Miley's eyes. Miley hesitated; then, with a sigh, she began to tell a story that still felt utterly senseless to her, even with the benefit of hindsight.


	2. Chapter 2

**And here is Revised Chapter 2**

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**Six Months Earlier**

Miley slouched in the front seat of the car, wondering why on earth her mom and dad hated her so much. It was the only thing that could explain why she was here visiting her dad, in this god forsaken southern armpit of a place, instead of spending time with her friends back home in Manhattan.

No, scratch that. She wasn't just visiting her dad. Visiting implied a weekend or two, maybe even a week. She supposed she could live with a visit. But to stay until late August? Pretty much the entire summer? That was banishment, and for most of the nine hours it had taken them to drive down, she'd felt like a prisoner being transferred to a rural penitentiary. She couldn't believe her mom was actually going to make her go through with this.

Miley was so enveloped in misery, it took a second for her to recognize Mozart's Sonata No.16 C Major. It was one of the pieces she had performed at Carnegie Hall four years ago, and she knew her mom had put it on while Miley was sleeping. Too bad, Miley reached over to turn it off.

"Why'd you do that?" her mom said, frowning. "I like hearing you play."

"I don't."

"How about I turn the volume down?"

"Just stop, mom. Okay? I am not in the mood."

Miley stared out the window, knowing full well that her mom's lips had just formed a tight seam. Her mom did that a lot these days. It was if her lips were magnetized.

"I think I saw a pelican when we crossed the bridge to Wrightsville Beach," her mom commented with forced lightness.

"Gee, that's swell. Maybe you should call the Crocodile Hunter."

"He died." Jackson said, his voice floating up from the backseat, the sounds mingling with those from his Game Boy. Her ten-year old pain-in-the-butt brother was addicted to the thing. "Don't you remember?" he went on. "It was really sad."

"Of course I remember."

"You didn't sound like you remembered."

"Well I did."

"Then you shouldn't have said what you said."

She didn't bother to respond a third time. Her brother always needed the last word. It drove her crazy.

"Were you able to get any sleep at all?" her mom asked.

"Until you hit that pothole. Thanks for that, by the way. My head practically went through the glass."

Her mom's gaze remained fixed on the road. "I'm glad to see you nap put you in a better mood."

Miley snapped her gum. Her mom hated that, which was the main reason she'd done it pretty much nonstop as they'd driven down I-95. The interstate, in her humble opinion, was just about the most boring stretch of roadway ever conceived. Unless someone was particularly fond of greasy fast food, disgusting rest-stop bathrooms, and zillions of pine trees, it could lull a person to sleep with its hypnotically ugly monotony.

She'd said those exact words to her mother in Delaware, Maryland and Virginia, but mom had ignored the comments every time. Aside from trying to make nice on the trip since it was the last time they'd see each other for a while, mom wasn't one for conversation in the car. She wasn't all that comfortable driving, which wasn't surprising since they either rode the subways or took cabs when they needed to get somewhere. In the apartment, though, that was a different story. Mom had no qualms about getting things there, and the building super had come by twice in the last couple of months to ask them to keep it down. Mom probably believed that the louder she yelled about Miley's grades, or Miley's friends, or the fact that Miley continually ignored her curfew, or the incident—especially the incident—the more likely it would be that Miley would care.

Okay, she wasn't the worst mom. She really wasn't. And when she was feeling generous, Miley might even admit that she was pretty good as far as moms went. It was just that her mom stuck in some weird time warp in which kids never grew up, and Miley wished for the hundredth time that she'd been born in May instead of August. That is when she'd turn eighteen, and her mom wouldn't be able to force her to do anything. Legally, she'd be old enough to make her own decisions, and let's just say that coming down here wasn't on her to-do list.

But right now, Miley had no choice in the matter. Because she was still seventeen. Because the trick of the calendar. Because mom conceived three months earlier than she should have. What was that about? No matter how fiercely Miley had begged or complained or screamed or whined about the summer plans, it hadn't made the tiniest bit of difference. Miley and Jackson were spending the summer with their dad, and that was final. No if, ands, or buts about it, was the way her had phrased it. Miley had learned to despise that expression.

Just off the bridge, summer traffic had slowed the line of cars to a crawl. Off to the side, between houses, Miley caught glimpses of the ocean. Yippee. Like she was supposed to care. "Why again are you making us do this?" Miley groaned.

"We've already been through this," her mom answered. "You need to spend time with your dad. He misses you."

"But why all summer? Couldn't it just be for a couple of weeks?"

"You need more than a couple of weeks together. You haven't seen him in three years."

"That's not my fault. He's the one who left."

"Yes, but you haven't taken his calls. And every time he came to New York to see you and Jackson, you ignored him and hung out with your friends."

Miley snapped her gum again. From the corner of her eye, she saw her mother wince. "I don't want to see or talk to him," Miley said.

"Just try to make the best of it, okay? Your father is a good man and he loves you."

"Is that why he walked out on us?" Instead of answering, her mom glanced up into the rearview mirror. "You've been looking forward to this, haven't you Jackson?"

"Are you kidding? This is gonna be great!"

"I'm glad you have a good attitude. Maybe you could teach your sister." He snorted. "Yeah, right."

"I just don't see why I can't spend the summer with my friends," Miley whined, cutting back in. She wasn't done yet. Though she knew the odds were slim to none, she still harbored the fantasy that she could convince her mom to turn the car around.

"Don't you mean you'd rather spend all night at the clubs? I'm not naive, Miley. I know what goes on in those kinds of places."

"I don't do anything wrong, mom."

"What about your grades? And your curfew? And—"

"Can we talk about something else?" Miley cut in. "Like why it's so imperative that I spend time with my dad?" Her mother ignored her. Then again, Miley knew she had every reason to. She'd already answered the question a million times, even if Miley didn't want to accept it.

Traffic eventually started to move again, and the car moved forward a half a block before coming to another halt. Her mother rolled down the window and tried to peer around the cars in front of her. "I wonder what's going on," she muttered. "It's really packed down here."

"It's the beach," Jackson volunteered. "It's always crowded at the beach."

"It's three o' clock on a Sunday. It shouldn't be this crowded." Miley tucked her legs up, hating her life. Hating everything about this.

"Hey, mom?" Jackson asked. "Does dad know Miley was arrested?"

"Yeah. He knows," she answered.

"What's he going to do?"

This time, Miley answered. "He won't do anything. All he ever cared about was the piano."

Miley hated the piano and she swore she'd never play again, a decision even some of her oldest friends thought was strange, since it had been a major part of her life for as long as she'd known them. Her dad, once a teacher at Juilliard, had been her teacher as well, and for a long time, she'd been consumed by the desire not only to play, but to compose original music with her father.

She was good, too. Very good, actually, and because of her father's connection to Juilliard, the administration and teachers there were well aware of her ability. Word slowly began to spread in the obscure "classical music is all-important" grapevine that constituted her father's life. A couple of articles in classical music magazines followed, and a moderately long piece in The New York Times that focused on the father-daughter connection came next, all of which eventually led to a coveted appearance in the Young Performers series at Carnegie Hall four years ago. That, she supposed, was the highlight of her career. And it was a Highlight; she wasn't naive about what she accomplished. She knew how rare an opportunity like that was, but lately she'd found herself wondering whether the sacrifices had been worth it. No one besides her parents probably even remembered the performance, after all. Or even cared. Miley had learned that unless you had a popular video on YouTube or could perform shows in front of thousands, musical ability meant nothing.

Sometimes she wished her father had started her on the electric guitar. Or at the very least, singing lessons. What was she supposed to do with an ability to play the piano? Teach music at the local school? Or play in some hotel lobby while people were checking in? Or chase the hard life her father had? Look where the piano had gotten him. He ended up quitting Juilliard so he could hit the road as a concert pianist and found himself playing in rinky-dink venues to audiences that barely filled the first couple of rows. He traveled forty weeks a year, long enough to put a strain on the marriage. Nest thing she knew, mom was yelling all the time and dad was retreating into his shell like he usually did, until one day he simply didn't return from an extended southern tour. As far as she knew, he wasn't working at all these days. He wasn't even giving private lessons.

_How did that work out for you, dad?_

She shook her head. She really didn't want to be here. God knows she wanted nothing to do with any of this. "Hey, mom!" Jackson called out. He leaned forward. "What's that over there? Is that a Ferris wheel?"

Her mom craned her neck, trying to see around the minivan in the lane beside her. "I think it is honey." she answered. "There must be a carnival in town."

"Can we go? After we all have dinner together?"

"You'll have to ask your dad."

"Yeah, and maybe afterward, we'll all sit around the campfire and roast marshmallows," Miley interjected."Like we're one big, happy family."

This time, both of them ignored her.

"Do you think they have other rides?" Jackson asked.

"I'm sure they do. And if your dad doesn't want to ride them, I'm sure your sister will go with you."

"Awesome!"

Miley sagged in her seat. It figured her mom would suggest something like that. The whole thing was too depressing to believe.


	3. Chapter 3

**A revised Chapter 3**

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Robbie Ray Stewart played the piano with keyed-up intensity, anticipating his children's arrival at any minute.

The piano was located in a small alcove off the small living room of the beachside bungalow he now called home. Behind him were items that represented his personal history. It wasn't much. Aside from the piano, Susan had been able to pack his belongings into a single box, and it had taken less than half an hour to put everything in place. There was a snapshot of him with his father and mother when he was young, another photo of him playing the piano as a teen. They were mounted between both of the degrees he'd received, one from Chapel Hill and the other from Boston University, and below it was a certificate of appreciation from Juilliard after he'd taught for fifteen years. Near the window were three framed schedules outlining his tour dates. Most important, though, were half a dozen photographs of Jackson and Miley, some tacked to the walls or framed and sitting atop the piano, and whenever he looked at them, he was reminded of the fact that despite his best intentions, nothing had turned out the way he expected.

The late afternoon sun was slanting through the windows, making the interior of the house stuffy, and Robbie Ray could feel beads of sweat beginning to form. Thankfully, the pain in his stomach had lessened since the morning, but he'd been nervous for days, and he knew it would come back. He'd always had a weak stomach; in his twenties, he'd had an ulcer and was hospitalized for diverticulitis; in his thirties, he'd had his appendix removed after it had burst while Susan was pregnant with Jackson. He ate Rolaids like candy, he'd been on Nexium for years, and though he knew he could probably eat better and exercise more, he doubted that either would have helped. Stomach problems ran in his family.

His father's death six years ago had changed him, and since the funeral, he'd felt as though he'd been on a countdown of sorts. In a way, he supposed he had. Five years ago, he'd quit his position at Juilliard, and a year after that, he decided to try his luck as a concert pianist. Three years ago, he and Susan decided to divorce; less than twelve months later, the tour dates began drying up, until they finally ended completely. Last year, he'd moved back here, to the town where he'd grown up, a place he never thought he'd see again. Now he was about to spend the summer with his children, and though he tried to imagine what the fall would bring once Miley and Jackson were back in New York, he knew only the leaves would yellow before turning to red and that in the mornings his breaths would come out in little puffs. He'd long since given up trying to predict the future.

This didn't bother him. He knew predictions were pointless, and besides, he could barely understand the past. These days, all he could say for sure was that he was ordinary in a world that loved the extraordinary, and the realization left him with a vague feeling of disappointment at the life he'd led. But what could he do? Unlike Susan, who'd been outgoing and gregarious, he'd always been more reticent and blended into crowds. Though he had certain talents as a musician and composer, he lacked the charisma or showmanship or whatever it was that made a performer stand out. At times, even he admitted that he'd been more an observer of the world than a participant in it, and in moments of painful honesty, he sometimes believed he was a failure in all that was important. He was forty-eight years old. His marriage had ended, his daughter avoided him, and his son was growing up without him. Thinking back, he knew he had no one to blame but himself, and more than anything, this was what he wanted to know: Was it still possible for someone like him to experience the presence of God?

Ten years ago, he could never have imagined wondering about such a thing. Two years, even. But middle age, he sometimes thought, had made him as reflective as a mirror. Though he'd once believed that the answer lay somehow in the music he created, he suspected now that he'd been mistaken. The more he thought about it, the more he'd come to realize that for him, music had always been a movement away from reality rather than a means of living in it more deeply. He might have experienced passion and catharsis in the works of Tchaikovsky or felt a sense of accomplishment when he'd written sonatas of his own, but he now knew that burying himself in music had less to do with God than a selfish desire to escape.

He now believed that the real answer lay somewhere in the nexus of love he felt for his children, in the ache he experienced when he woke in the quiet house and realized they weren't here. But even then, he knew there was something more. And somehow, he hoped his children would help him find it.

A few minutes later, Robbie Ray noticed the sun reflecting off the windshield of a dusty station wagon outside. He and Susan had purchased it years ago for weekend outings to Costco and family getaways. He wondered in passing if she'd remembered to change the oil before she'd driven down, or even since he'd left. Probably not, he decided. Susan had never been good at things like that, which was why he'd always taken care of them. But that part of his life was over now.

Robbie Ray rose from his seat, and by the time he stepped onto the porch, Jackson was already out of the car and rushing toward him. His hair hadn't been combed, his glasses crooked, and his arms and legs were as skinny as pencils. Robbie Ray felt his throat tighten, reminded again of how much he'd missed in the past three years.

"Dad!"

"Jackson!" Robbie Ray shouted back as he crossed the rocky sand that constituted his yard. When Jackson jumped into his arms, it was all he could do to remain upright. "You've gotten so big," he said.

"And you've gotten smaller!" Jackson said. "You're skinny now."

Robbie Ray hugged his son tight before putting him down. "I'm glad you're here."

"I am, too. Mom and Miley fought the whole time."

"That's no fun."

"It's okay. I ignored it. Except when I egged them on."

"Ah," Robbie Ray responded. Jackson pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

"Why didn't mom let us fly?"

"Did you ask her?"

"No."

"Maybe you should."

"It's not important. I was just wondering." Robbie Ray smiled. He'd forgotten how talkative his son could be.

"Hey, is this your house?"

"That's it."

"This place is awesome!"

Robbie Ray wondered if Jackson was serious. The house was anything but awesome. The bungalow was easily the oldest property on Wrightsville Beach and sandwiched between two massive homes that had gone up within the last ten years, making it seem even more diminutive. The paint was peeling, the roof was missing numerous shingles, and the porch was rotting; it wouldn't surprise him if the next decent storm blew it over, which would no doubt please the neighbors. Since he'd moved in, neither family had ever spoken to him.

"You think so?" he said.

"Hello? It's right on the beach. What else could you want?" He motioned toward the ocean. "Can I go check it out?"

"Sure. But be careful. And stay behind the house. Don't wander off."

"Deal."

Robbie Ray watched him jog off before turning to see Susan approaching. Miley had just stepped out of the car as well but was still lingering near it.

"Hi, Susan," he said.

"Robbie Ray." She leaned in to give him a brief hug. "You doing okay?" she asked. "You look thin."

"I'm okay."

Behind her, Robbie Ray noticed Miley slowly making her way toward them. He was struck by how much she had changed since the last photo Susan had e-mailed. Gone was the all-American girl he remembered, and in her place was a young woman with a purple streak in her long brown hair, black fingernail polish, and dark clothing. Despite the obvious signs of teenage rebellion, he thought again how much she resembled her mother. Good thing, too. She was, he thought, as lovely as ever.

He cleared his throat. "Hi, sweetie. It's good to see you."

When Miley didn't answer, Susan scowled at her. "Don't be rude. Your father is talking to you. Say something."

Miley crossed her arms. "All right. How about this? I'm not going to play the piano for you."

"Miley!" Robbie Ray could hear Susan's exasperation.

"What?" She tossed her head. "I thought I'd get that out of the way early."

Before Susan could respond, Robbie Ray shook his head. The last thing he wanted was an argument. "It's okay, Susan."

"Yeah, mom. It's okay," Miley said, pouncing. "I need to stretch my legs. I'm going for a walk."

As she stomped away, Robbie Ray watched Susan struggle with the impulse to call her back. In the end, though, she said nothing.

"Long drive?" he asked, trying to lighten the mood.

"You can't even imagine it." He smiled, thinking that for just an instant, it was easy to imagine they were still married, both of them on the same team, both of them still in love. Except, of course, that they weren't.

After unloading the bags, Robbie Ray went to the kitchen, where he tapped ice cubes from the old-fashioned tray and dropped them into the mismatched glasses that had come with the place. Behind him, he heard Susan enter the kitchen. He reached for a pitcher of sweet tea, poured two glasses, and handed one to her. Outside, Jackson was alternately chasing, and being chased by, the waves as seagulls fluttered overhead.

"It looks like Jackson's having fun," he said.

Susan took a step toward the window. "He's been excited about coming for weeks." She hesitated. "He misses you."

"I've missed him."

"I know," she said. She took a drink of her tea before glancing around the kitchen. "So this is the place, huh? It's got... character."

"By character, I assume you've noticed the leaky roof and lack of air-conditioning." Susan flashed a brief smile, caught. "I know it's not much. But it's quiet. And I can watch the sun come up."

"And the church is letting you stay here for free?"

Robbie Ray nodded. "It belonged to Carson Johnson. He was a local artist, and when he passed away, he left the house to the church. Pastor Harris is letting me stay until they are ready to sell."

"So what's it like living back home? I mean, your parents used to live, what? Three blocks from here?"

Seven, actually. Close. "It's all right." he shrugged. "It's so crowded now. The place has really changed since the last time I was here."

"Everything changes," he said. He leaned against the counter, crossing one leg over the other. "So when's the big day?" he asked, changing the subject. "For you and Brian?"

"Robbie... about that."

"It's okay," he said raising a hand. "I'm glad you found someone."

Susan stared at him, clearly wondering whether to accept his words at face value or plunge into sensitive territory. "In January," she finally said. "And I want you to know with the kids... Brian doesn't pretend to be someone he isn't. You'd like him."

"I'm sure I would," he said, taking a sip of his tea. He set the glass back down. "How do the kids feel about him?"

"Jackson seems to like him, but Jackson likes everyone."

"And Miley?"

"She gets along with him about as well as she gets along with you." He laughed before noting her worried expression. "How's she really doing?"

"I don't know." she sighed. "And I don't think she does, either. She's in a dark, moody phase. She ignores her curfew, and half the time I can't more than a _whatever_ when I try to talk to her. I try to write it off as typical teenage stuff, because I remember what it was like... but..." she shook her head. "You saw the way she was dressed, right? And her hair and that god awful mascara?"

"Mmm."

"And?"

"It could be worse."

Susan opened her mouth to say something, but when nothing came out, Robbie knew he was right. Whatever stage she was going through, whatever Susan's fears, Miley was still Miley. "I guess," she conceded, before shaking her head. "No, I know your right. It's just been so difficult with her lately. There are times she's still sweet as ever. Like with Jackson. Even though they fight like cats and dogs, she still brings him to the park every weekend. And when he is having trouble in math, she tutored him every night. Which is strange, because she is barely passing any of her classes. And I haven't told you this, but I made her take the SATs in February. She missed every single question. Do you know how smart you have to be to miss every single question?" When Robbie laughed, Susan frowned. "It's not funny."

"It's kind of funny."

"You haven't had to deal with her these last three years."

He paused, chastened. "You're right. I'm sorry." He reached for his glass again. "What did the judge say about her shoplifting?"

"Just what I told you on the phone," she said with a resigned expression. "If she doesn't get into anymore trouble, it'll be expunged from her record. If she does it again, though..." she trailed off.

"You're worried about this," he started.

Susan turned away. "It's not the first time, which is the problem," she confessed. "She admitted to stealing the bracelet last year, but this time, she said she was buying a bunch of stuff at the drugstore and couldn't hold it all, so she tucked the lipstick in her pocket. She paid for everything else, and when you see the video, it seems to be an honest mistake, but..."

"But you're not sure." When Susan didn't answer, Robbie shook his head. "She's not on her way to being profiled on America's Most Wanted. She made a mistake. And she has a good heart."

"That doesn't mean she is telling the truth now."

"And it doesn't mean she lied, either."

"So you believe her?" Her expression was mixture of hope and skepticism. He sifted through his feelings about the incident, as he had a dozen times since Susan had first told him.

"Yeah," he said. "I believe her."

"Why?"

"Because she's a good kid."

"How do you know?" she demanded. For the first time, she sounded angry. "The last time you spent any time with her, she was finishing middle school." She turned away from him then, crossing her arms as she gazed out the window. Her voice was bitter when she went on. "You could have come back, you know. You could have taught in New York again. You didn't have to travel around the country, you didn't have to move here... you could have stayed part of their lives."

Her words stung him, and he knew she was right. But it hadn't been that simple, for reasons they both understood, though neither would acknowledge them. The charged silence passed when Robbie eventually cleared his throat. "I was just trying to say that Miley knows right from wrong. As much as she asserts her independence, I still believe she's the same person she always was. In the ways that really matter, she hasn't changed." Before Susan could figure out how or if she should respond to his comment, Jackson burst through the front door, his cheeks flushed.

"Dad! I found a really cool workshop! C'mon! I want to show you!" Susan raised an eyebrow.

"It's out back," Robbie said. "Do you want to see it?"

"It's awesome, mom!"

Susan turned from Robbie to Jackson and back again. "No, that's okay," she said. "That sounds like more of a father and son thing. And besides, I should really be going."

"Already?" Jackson asked. Robbie knew how hard this was gonna be for Susan, and he answered for her.

"Your mom has a long drive back. And besides, I wanted to take you to the carnival tonight. Could we do that instead?" Robbie watched Jackson's shoulders sink a fraction.

"I guess that's okay," he said.

After Jackson said good-bye to his mom—with Miley still nowhere in sight and, according to Susan, unlikely to return soon—Robbie and Jackson strolled over to the workshop, a leaning, tin-roofed outbuilding that had come with the property. For the last three months, Robbie had spent most afternoons here, surrounded by assorted junk and small sheets of stained-glass that Jackson was now exploring. In the center of the workshop was a large worktable with beginnings of a stained-glass window, but Jackson seemed far more interested in the weird taxidermy pieces perched on the shelves, the previous owner's specialty. It was hard not to b e mesmerized by the half-squirrel/half-bass creature or the opossum's head grafted onto the body of a chicken.

"What is this stuff?" Jackson asked.

"It's supposed to be art."

"I thought art was like painting and stuff."

"It is. But sometimes art is other things, too."

Jackson wrinkled his nose, staring at the half-rabbit/half-snake. "It doesn't look like art." When Robbie smiled, Jackson motioned to the stained-glass window on the work table. "Was this his, too?" he asked.

"Actually, that's mine. I'm making it for the church down the street. It burned last year, and the original window was destroyed in the fire."

"I didn't know you could make windows."

"Believe it or not, the artist who used to live here taught me how."

"The guy who did the animals?"

"The same one."

"And you knew him?" Robbie joined his son at the table.

"When I was a kid, I'd sneak over here when I was supposed to be in Bible study. He made the stained-glass windows for most of the churches around here. See the picture on the wall?" Robbie pointed to a small photograph of the Risen Christ tacked to one of the shelves, easy to miss in the chaos. "Hopefully, it'll look just like that when it's finished."

"Awesome," Jackson said, and Robbie smiled. It was obviously Jackson's new favorite word, and he wondered how many times he'd hear it this summer.

"Do you want to help?"

"Can I?"

"I was counting on it." Robbie gave him a gentle nudge. "I need a good assistant."

"Is it hard?"

"I was your age when I started, so I'm sure you'll be able to handle it." Jackson gingerly picked up a piece of the glass and examined it, holding it up to the light, his expression serious.

"I'm pretty sure I can handle it, too." Robbie smiled.

"Are you still going to church?" he asked.

"Yeah. But it's not the same one we went to. It's the one where Brian likes to go. And Miley doesn't always come with us. She locks herself in her room and refuses to come out, but as soon as we leave, she goes over to Starbucks to hang out with her friends. It makes mom furious."

"That happens when kids become teenagers. They test their parents." Jackson put the glass back on the table. "I won't," he said. "I'm always going to be good. But I don't like the new church very much. It's boring. So I might not go to that one."

"Fair enough." He paused. "I hear you're not playing soccer this fall."

"I'm not very good at it."

"So what? It's fun, right?"

"Not when other kids make fun of you."

"They make fun of you?"

"It's okay. It doesn't bother me."

"Ah," Robbie said. Jackson shuffled his feet, something obviously on his mind. "Miley didn't read and of the letters you sent her, dad. And she won't play the piano anymore, either."

"I know," Robbie answered. "Mom says it's because she has PMS." Robbie almost choked but composed himself quickly.

"Do you even know what that means?"

Jackson pushed his glasses up. "I'm not a little kid anymore. It means pissed-at-men syndrome."

Robbie laughed, ruffling Jackson's hair. "How about we go find your sister? I think I saw her heading toward the festival."

"Can we ride the Ferris wheel?"

"Whatever you want."

"Awesome."

The fair was crowded. Or rather, Miley corrected herself, the Wrightsville Beach Seafood Festival was crowded. As she paid for a soda from one of the concession stands, she could see cars parked bumper to bumper along both roads leading to the pier and even noted a few enterprising teenagers renting out their driveways near the action. So far, though, the action was boring. She supposed she'd been hoping that the Ferris wheel was a permanent fixture and that pier offered shops and stores like the boardwalk in Atlantic City. In other words, she hoped it would be the kind of place she could see herself hanging out in the summer. No such luck. The festival was temporarily located in the parking lot at the head of the pier, and it mostly resembled a small country fair. The rickety rides were part of the traveling carnival, and the parking lot was lined with overpriced game booths and greasy food concessions. The whole place was kind of... gross.

Not that anyone else seemed to share her opinion. The place was packed. Old and young, families, groups of middle-schoolers ogling one another. No matter which way she went, she always seemed to be fighting against the tide of bodies. Sweaty bodies. Big, sweaty bodies, two of whom were squashing her between them as the crowd came to an inexplicable stop. No doubt they'd had both the fried hot dog and fried Snickers bar she'd seen at the concession stand. She wrinkled her nose. So gross. Spying an opening, she slipped away from the rides and carnival game booths and headed toward the pier. Fortunately, the crowd continued to thin as she moved down the pier, past booths offering homemade crafts for sale. Nothing she could ever imagine herself buying... who on earth would want a gnome constructed entirely from seashells? But obviously someone was buying the stuff or the booths wouldn't exist. Distracted, she bumped into a table manned by an elderly woman seated on a folding chair. Wearing a shirt emblazoned with the logo SPCA, she had white hair and an open, cheerful face—the type of grandmother who probably spent all day baking cookies before Christmas Eve, Miley guessed. On the table in front of her were pamphlets and a donations jar, along with a large cardboard box. Inside the box were four gray puppies, one of which hopped up on its hind legs to peer over the side at her.

"Hi, little guy," she said.

There elderly woman smiled. "Do you want to hold him? He's the fun one. I call him Seinfeld." The puppy gave a high-pitched whine.

"No, that's okay." He was cute, though. Really cute, even if she didn't think the name suited him. And she did sort of want to hold him, but she knew she wouldn't want to put him down if she did. She was a sucker for animals in general, especially abandoned ones. Like these little guys. "They're going to be okay, right? You're not going to have to put them to sleep, are you?"

"They'll be fine," the woman answered. "That's why we set up the table. So people would adopt them. Last year, we found homes for over thirty animals, and these four have already been claimed. I'm just waiting for the new owners to pick them up on their way out. But there are more at the shelter if you are interested."

"I'm only visiting," Miley answered, just as a roar erupted from the beach. She craned her neck, trying to see. "What's going on? A concert?"

The woman shook her head. "Beach volleyball. They've been playing for hours—some kind of tournament. You should go watch. I've heard the cheering all day, so the games must be pretty exciting."

Miley thought about it, figuring, why not? It couldn't be any worse than what was happening up here. She threw a couple of dollars into the donation jar before heading toward the steps. The sun was descending, giving the ocean a sheen like liquid gold. On the beach, a few remaining families were congregated on towels near the water, along with a couple of sand castles about to be swept away in the rising tide. Terns darted in and out, hunting for crabs.

It didn't take long to reach the source of the action. As she inched her way to the edge of the court, she noticed that the other people in the audience seemed fixated on the two players on the right. No surprise there. A girl and a guy—her age? older?—were the kind that her friend Joannie routinely described as "eye candy." Though neither of them were was exactly Miley's type, it was impossible not to admire their lanky, muscular physiques and the fluid way they moved through the sand. Especially the taller one, with long blonde hair and the macramé bracelet on her wrist. Joannie would have definitely zeroed in on her—she always went for the tall ones—in the same way the bikini-clad brunette across the court was obviously zeroing in on the blonde haired girl. Miley noticed the brunette and her friend right away. They were both thin and pretty, with blindingly white teeth, and obviously used to being the center of attention and having people drool all over them. They held themselves apart from the crowd and cheered daintily, probably so they wouldn't mess up their hair. They might as well have been billboards proclaiming it was ok to admire them from a distance, but don't get too close. Miley didn't know them, but she already didn't like them.

She turned her attention back to the game just as the cute girl scored another point. And then another. And still another. She didn't know what the score was, but they were obviously the better team. And yet, as she watched, she silently began to root for the other guys. It had less to do with the fact that she always rooted for the underdog—which she did—and more to do with the fact that the winning pair reminded her of the spoiled private school types she sometimes ran into at the clubs. She'd seen enough of the so-called privileged crowd to recognize a member when she saw one, and she'd bet her life that those two were definitely part of the popular crowd around here. Her suspicions were confirmed after the next point when the blonde-haired girl's partner winked at the brunette's tanned, Barbie-doll friend as he got ready to serve. In this town, the pretty people clearly all knew one another.

Why wasn't she surprised by that?

The game suddenly seemed less interesting, and she turned to leave just as another serve sailed over the net. She vaguely heard someone shouting as the opposing team returned the serve, but before she had taken more than a couple of steps, she felt the spectators around her beginning to jostle one another, knocking her off balance for just an instant. An instant too long.

She turned just in time to see one of the players rushing toward her at full speed, her head craning to catch sight of the wayward ball. She didn't have time to react before she slammed into her. Miley felt her grab her shoulders in a simultaneous attempt to stop her momentum and prevent Miley from falling. She felt her arm jerk on impact and watched almost in fascination as the lid flew off the Styrofoam cup, soda arching through the air before drenching her face and shirt. And then, just like that, it was over. Up close, she saw the blonde haired player staring at her, her eyes wide with shock.

"Are you okay?" She panted. She could feel the soda dripping down her face and soaking through her shirt. Vaguely, she heard someone in the crowd begin to laugh. And why shouldn't someone laugh? It had been such a fantastic day already.

"I'm fine," she snapped.

"Are you sure?" the girl gasped. For what it was worth, she seemed genuinely contrite. "I ran into you kind of hard."

"Just... let me go," she said through clenched teeth. The girl hadn't seemed to realize she was still gripping her shoulders, and her hands instantly released their pressure. She took a quick step back and automatically reached for her bracelet. She rotated it almost absently. "I'm really sorry about that. I was going for the ball and..."

"I know what you were doing," she said. "I survived, okay?" With that, she turned away, wanting nothing more than to get as far away from here as possible.

Behind her, she heard someone call out, "C'mon, Lilly! Let's get back to the game!"

But as she pushed her way through the crowd, she was conscious somehow of her continuing gaze until she vanished from sight.


	4. Chapter 4

**A revised Chapter 4, one more Chapter to revise then I promise to get back to updating new chapters.**

* * *

**Chapter 4**

Her shirt wasn't ruined, but that didn't make her feel much better. She liked this shirt, a memento from the Fall Out Boy concert that she's sneaked out to with Sarah last year. Her mom had almost blown a gasket about that one, and it was not simply because Sarah had a tattoo of a spider web on her neck and more piercings in her ears then Joannie did, it was because she had lied about where they were going, and she hadn't made it home until the following afternoon, since they had ended up crashing at Sarah's brother's place in Philadelphia. Her mom forbade Miley from seeing or even speaking to Sarah ever again, a rule that Miley broke the very next day. It wasn't that she loved Sarah, frankly she didn't even like her that much. But she was angry at her mom, and it felt right at the time. But when she got to Sarah's place, she was already stoned and drunk again, just as she had been at the concert, and she realized if she continued to see her, she would continue to pressure her to try whatever it was she was taking, just as she'd done the night before. She spent only a few minutes at her place before heading to Union Square for the rest of the afternoon, knowing it was over between them.

She wasn't naïve about drugs. Some of her friends smoked pot, a few did cocaine or ecstasy, and one even had a nasty meth habit. Everyone but her drank on the weekends. Every club party she went to offered easy access to all of it. Still, it seemed that whenever her friends smoked or drank or popped the pills they swore made the evening worthwhile, they'd spend the rest of the night slurring their words or staggering or vomiting or losing control completely and doing something really stupid. Something usually involving a guy or girl. Miley didn't want to go there. Not after what happened to Joannie last winter. Someone, Joannie never knew who, slipped some GHB into her drink, and though she had only a vague recollection of what happened next, she was pretty sure she remembered being in a room with three guys she had met for the first time that night. When she woke the following morning, her clothes were strewn around the room. Joannie never said anything more, she preferred to pretend it had never happened at all and regretted having told Miley even that much, but it wasn't hard to connect the dots.

When she reached the pier, Miley set her half-empty drink cup and dabbed furiously at her shirt with her wet napkin. It seemed to be working, but the napkin was disintegrating into tiny white flakes that resembled dandruff.

Great.

She wished the girl had rammed into someone else. She was only there for what, ten minutes? What were the odds that she'd turn away the same instant the ball came flying her way? And that she'd be holding a soda in a crowd at a volleyball game she didn't even want to watch, in a place she didn't want to be? In a million years, the same thing could probably never happen again. With odds like that, she should have bought a lottery ticket.

And then there was the girl who did it. Blonde-haired, blue eyed cute girl. Up close, she realized she was way better looking than cute, especially when she got the expression of... concern. She might have been part of the popular crowd, but in the nanosecond their eyes met, she'd had the strangest sense that she was as real as they come.

Miley shook her head to clear her mind of such crazy thoughts. Clearly the sun was affecting her brain. Satisfied that she'd done the best she could with the napkin, she picked up the cup of soda. She planned to throw the rest away, but as she spun around, she felt the cup get jammed between her and someone else. This time, nothing happened in slow motion, this soda instantly covered the front of her shirt.

She froze, staring down her shirt in disbelief. _You've got to be kidding._

Standing before her was a girl her age holding a slurpee, seemingly as surprised as she was. She was dressed in black, and her stringy dark hair hung in unruly curls framing her face. Like Joannie, she had at least half a dozen piercings in each ear, highlighted with a couple of miniature skulls that dangled from her earlobes, and her dark eye shadow and eyeliner gave her and almost feral appearance. As the remains of her soda soaked through Miley's shirt, Goth-looking chick motioned her slurpee toward the spreading stain.

"Sucks being you," she said.

"Ya think?"

"At least the other side matches now."

"Oh, I get it. You're trying to be funny."

"Witty is more like it."

"Then you might have said something like 'Maybe you should stick with sippy cups'."

Goth chick laughed, a surprisingly girlish sound. "You're not from around here, are you?"

"No, I'm from New York. I'm here visiting my dad."

"For the weekend?"

"No. For the summer."

"It does suck being you."

This time, it was Miley's turn to laugh. "I'm Miley."

"Call me Mikayla."

"My real name's Galadriel. It's from Lord of the Rings. My mom's weird like that."

"At least she didn't name you Gollum."

"Or Miley." With a tilt to her head, she motioned over her shoulder. "If you want something dry, there are some Nemo shirts in the booth over there."

"Nemo?"

"Yeah, Nemo. From the movie? Orange and white fish, gimpy flipper? Gets stuck in a fish tank and his dad goes to find him?"

"I don't want a Nemo shirt, okay?"

"Nemo's cool."

"Maybe if you're six," Miley retorted.

"Suit yourself."

Before Miley could respond, she spied three guys pushing their way through a parting mob. They stood out from the beach crowd with their torn shorts and tattoos, bare chests showing beneath heavy leather jackets. One had a pierced eyebrow and was carrying and old fashioned boom box, another had a bleached Mohawk and arms completely covered with tattoos. The third, like Mikayla, had long black hair offset by milky white skin. Miley turned instinctively to Mikayla, only to realize Mikayla was gone. In her place stood Jackson.

"What did you spill on your shirt?" he asked. "You're all wet and sticky."

Miley searched for Mikayla, wondering where she's gone. And why. "Just go away, okay?"

"I can't. Dad's looking for you. I think he wants you to come home."

"Where is he?"

"He stopped to go to the bathroom, but he should be here any minute."

"Tell him you didn't see me."

Jackson thought about it. "Five bucks."

"What?"

"Gimmie five bucks and I'll forget you were here."

"Are you serious?"

"You don't have much time," he said. "Now it's ten bucks."

Over Jackson's head, she spotted her dad searching the crowd around him. Instinctively she ducked, knowing there was no way she could sneak past him. She glared at her brother, the blackmailer, who'd obviously realized it as well. He was cute and she loved him and she respected his blackmailing abilities, but still, he was her little brother. In a perfect world, he would be on her side. But was he? Of course not.

"I hate you, you know," she said.

"Yeah, I hate you, too. But it's still gonna cost you ten bucks."

"How about five?"

"You missed your chance. But your secret will be safe with me."

Her dad still hadn't seen them, but he was getting closer.

"Fine," she hissed, digging through her pockets. She passed over a crumpled bill and Jackson pocketed the money. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw her father moving in her direction, his head still going from side to side, and she ducked around the booth. Surprising her, Mikayla was leaning against the side of the booth, smoking a cigarette.

She smirked. "Problems with your dad?"

"How do I get out of here?"

"That's up to you." Mikayla shrugged. "But he knows what shirt you're wearing."

An hour later, Miley was sitting beside Mikayla on one of the benches near the end of the pier, still bored, but not quite as bored as she'd been before. Mikayla turned out to be a good listener, with a quirky sense of humor, and best of all, she seemed to love New York as much as Miley did, even though she'd never been there. She asked questions about the basics: Times Square and the Empire State Building and the Statue of Liberty, tourist traps that Miley tried to avoid at all costs. But Miley humored her before describing the real New York, the clubs in Chelsea, the music scene in Brooklyn, and the street vendors in Chinatown, where it was possible to buy bootlegged recordings or fake Prada purses or pretty much anything else for pennies on the dollar.

Talking about those places made her absolutely long to be back home instead of here. Anywhere but here.

"I wouldn't have wanted to come here either," Mikayla agreed. "Trust me. It's boring."

"How long have you lived here?"

"Just my whole life. But at least I'm dressed okay."

Miley had brought the stupid Nemo shirt, knowing she looked ridiculous. The only size the booth had in stock was an extra large, and the thing practically reached her knees. Its only redeeming feature was that once she donned it, she'd be able to slip unseen past her father. Mikayla had been right about that.

"Someone told me Nemo was cool."

"She was lying."

"What are we still doing out here? My dad's probably gone by now."

Mikayla turned. "Why? Do you want to go back to the carnival? Maybe go to the haunted house?"

"No. But there's got to be something else going on."

"Not yet. Later there will be. But for now, let's just wait."

"For what?"

Mikayla didn't answer. Instead, she stood and turned around, facing the blackened water. Her hair moved in the breeze, and she seemed to stare at the moon, "I saw you earlier, you know."

"When?"

"When you were at the volleyball game." She motioned down the pier. "I was standing over there."

"And?"

"You seemed out of place."

"So do you."

"Which is why I was standing on the pier." She hopped up onto the railing and took a seat, facing Miley. "I know you don't want to be here, but what did your dad do to make you so mad?"

Miley wiped her palms on her pants. "It's a long story."

"Does he live with his girlfriend?"

"I don't think he has a girlfriend, why?"

"Consider yourself lucky."

"What are you talking about?"

"My dad lives with his girlfriend. This is his third one since the divorce, by the way, and she's the worst by far. She's only a few years older than I am and she dresses like a stripper. For all I know, she was a stripper. It makes me sick every time I have to go there. It's like she doesn't know how to act around me. One minute she tries to give me advice like she's my mom, and the next minute she's trying to be my best friend. I hate her."

"And you live with your mom?"

"Yeah. But now she has a boyfriend, and he's at the house all the time. And he's a loser, too. He wears this ridiculous toupee because he went bald when he was like twenty or something, and he's always telling me that I want to think about giving collage a try. Like I care what he thinks. It's just all screwed up, you know?"

Before Miley could answer, Mikayla jumped back down. "C'mon. I think they're getting ready to start. You've got to see this."

Miley followed Mikayla back up the pier, toward a crowd surrounding what seemed to be a street show. Startled, she realized that the performers were the three thuggish guys she'd spotted earlier. Two of them were break dancing to music blaring from the boom box, while the one with long black hair stood in the center juggling what seemed to be flaming golf balls. Every now and then he would stop juggling and simply hold the ball, rotating it between his fingers or rolling it across the back of his hand, or up one arm and down the other. Twice, he closed his fist over the fireball, nearly extinguishing it, only to move his hand, allowing the flames to escape out the tiny opening near his thumb.

"Do you know him?" Miley asked.

Mikayla nodded. "That's Rico."

"Is he wearing some sort of protective coating on his hands?"

"No."

"Does it hurt?"

"Not if you hold the fireball right. It's awesome, though, isn't it?"

Miley had to agree. Rico extinguished two of the balls and then relit them again by touching them to the third. On the ground lay an upturned magician's hat, and Miley watched as people began tossing money into it.

"Where does he get the fireballs?"

"He makes them. I can show you how. It's not hard. All you need it a cotton T-shirt, needle and thread, and some lighter fluid."

As the music continued to blare, Rico tossed the three fireballs to the guy with the Mohawk and lit two more. They juggled them back and forth between each other like circus clowns using bowling pins, faster and faster, until one throw went awry.

Except that it didn't. The guy with the pierced eyebrow caught it soccer-ball style and began bouncing it from foot to foot as though it were nothing more than a Hacky Sack. After extinguishing three of the fireballs, the other two followed suit, the entire troupe kicking the two fireballs back and forth between them. The crowd started to clap, and money rained into the hat as the music built to a crescendo. Then all at once, the remaining fireballs were caught and extinguished simultaneously as the song thundered to a close.

Miley had to admit she'd never seen anything like it. Rico walked over to Mikayla and folded her into a long, lingering kiss that seemed wildly inappropriate in public. He opened his eyes slowly, staring right at Miley before he pushed Mikayla away.

"Who's that?" he asked, motioning in Miley's direction.

"That's Miley," Mikayla said. "She's from New York. I just met her."

Mohawk and Pierced Eyebrow joined Rico and Mikayla in their scrutiny, making Miley feel distinctly uncomfortable.

"New York, huh?" Rico asked, pulling a lighter from his pocket and igniting one of the fireballs. He held the flaming orb motionless between his thumb and forefinger, making Miley wonder again how he could do that without getting burned.

"Do you like fire?" he called out.

Without waiting for an answer, he threw the fireball in her direction. Miley jumped out of the way, too startled to respond. The ball landed behind her just as a police officer rushed forward, stamping out the flame.

"You three," he called out, pointing. "Out. Now. I've told you before that you can't do your little show on the pier, and next time, I swear I'm gonna bring you in."

Rico held up his hands and took a step backward. "We were just leaving."

The boys grabbed their coats and began moving up the pier, toward the carnival rides. Mikayla followed, leaving Miley alone. Miley felt the officer's gaze on her, but she ignored him. Instead, she hesitated only briefly before going after them.

He'd known she would follow them. They always did. Especially the new girls in town. That was the thing with girls, The worse he treated them, the more they wanted him. They were stupid like that. Predictable, but stupid.

He leaned against the planter that fronted the hotel, Mikayla wrapping her arms around him. Miley was sitting across from them on one of the benches, off to the side, Teddy and Lance were slurring their words as they tried to get the attention of the girls who walked past them. They were already tanked—hell, they were a little tanked even before the show—and as usual, all but the ugliest of girls ignored them. Half the time, even he ignored them.

Mikayla, meanwhile, was nibbling on his neck, but he ignored that, too. He was sick of the way she always hung on him whenever they were out in public. Sick of her in general. If she weren't so good in bed, if she didn't know the things that really turned him on, he would have dumped her a month ago for one of the three or four or five others girls he regularly slept with. But right now he wasn't interested in them, either. Instead, he stared at Miley, liking the purple streak in her hair and her tight little body, the glittery effect of her eye shadow. It was sort of an upscale, trampy style, despite the stupid shirt she was wearing. He liked that. He liked that a lot.

He pushed against Mikayla's hips, wishing she weren't here. "Go get me some fries," he said. "I'm kind of hungry."

Mikayla pulled back. "I only have a couple of dollars left."

He could hear the whine in her voice. "So? That should cover it. And make sure you don't eat any of them, either."

He meant it. Mikayla was getting a little soft in the belly, a little puffy in the face. No surprise considering that lately she'd been drinking almost as much as Teddy and Lance.

Mikayla made a show of pouting, but Rico gave her a little shove and she headed to one of the food booths. The line was at least six or seven deep, and as she reached the end of it, Rico sauntered toward Miley and took a seat beside her. Close, but not too close. Mikayla was the jealous type, and he didn't want her running Miley off before he had a chance to get to know her.

"What did you think?" he asked.

"About what?"

"The show. Have you ever seen anything like it in New York?"

"No," she admitted, "I haven't."

"Where are you staying?"

"Just down the beach a little way." He could tell by her answer that she was uncomfortable, probably because Mikayla wasn't there.

Mikayla said you ditched your dad."

In response, she simply shrugged.

"What? You don't want to talk about it?"

"There's nothing to say."

He leaned back. "Maybe you just don't trust me."

"What are you talking about?"

"You'll talk to Mikayla, but not me."

"I don't even know you."

"You don't know Mikayla, either. You just met her."

Miley didn't seem to appreciate his snappy comebacks. "I just didn't want to talk to him, okay? And I don't want to have to spend my summer here, either."

He pushed the hair out of his eyes. "So leave."

"Yeah, right. Where am I supposed to go?"

"Let's go to Florida."

She blinked. "What?"

"I know a guy who's got a place down there just outside of Tampa. If you want, I'll bring you. We can stay there as long as you want. My car's over there."

She stared at him as if in shock. "I can't go to Florida with you. I... I just met you. And what about Mikayla?"

"What about her?"

"You're with her."

"So?" He kept his face neutral.

"This is too weird." She shook her head and stood. "I think I'll go see how Mikayla is doing."

Rico reached in his pocket for a fireball. "You know I was kidding, right?"

Actually, he hadn't been kidding. He'd said for the same reason he'd thrown the fireball at her. To see how far he could push her.

"Yeah, okay. Fine. I'm still going over there to talk to her."

Rico watched her stalk off. As much as he admired that dynamite little body, he wasn't sure what to make of her. She dressed the part, but unlike Mikayla, she didn't smoke or show any interest in partying, and he got the sense that there was more to her than she was letting on. He wondered if she came from money. Made sense, right? Apartment in New York, house at the beach? Family had to have money to afford things like that. But...then again, there wasn't a chance she'd fit in with the people around here who had money, at least the ones he knew. So which one was it? And why did it matter?

Because he didn't like people with money, didn't like the way they flaunted it, and didn't like the way they thought they were better than other people because of it. Once, before he dropped out, he'd heard a rich kid at school talking about a new boat he got for his birthday. It wasn't a piece of crap skiff, this was a twenty one foot Boston Whaler with GPS and sonar, and the kid kept bragging about how he was going to use it all summer and dock it at the slips at the country club.

Three days later, Rico set the boat on fire and watched it burn from behind the magnolia tree on the sixteenth green.

He'd told no one what he'd done, of course. Tell one person, and you might as well have confessed to the cops. Teddy and Lance were cases in point: Put them in a holding cell and they'd crumple as soon as the door clanged shut. Which was why he insisted they do all the dirty work these days. Best way to keep them from talking was to make sure they were even more guilty than he was. Nowadays, they were the ones who stole the booze, the ones who beat the bald guy unconscious at the airport before taking his wallet, the ones who painted the swastikas on the synagogue. He didn't necessarily trust them, didn't even particularly like them, but they always went along with his plans. They served a purpose. Behind him, Teddy and Lance continued to act like the idiots they were, and with Miley gone, Rico was antsy. He didn't intend to sit here all night, doing nothing. After Mikayla got back, after he ate his fries, he figured they'd go wandering. See what came up. Never knew what might happen in a place like this, on a night like this, in a crowd like this. One thing was certain: After a show, he always needed something… more. Whatever that meant.

Glancing over to the food booth, he saw Mikayla paying for the fries, Miley right behind her. He stared at Miley, again willing her to turn his way, and eventually, she did. Nothing much, just a quick peek, but that was enough to make him wonder again what she'd be like in bed. Probably wild, he thought. Most of them were, with the right kind of encouragement.

No matter what she was doing, Lilly could always feel the weight of the secret pressing down on her. On the surface, everything seemed normal: in the last six months, she had gone to her classes, played basketball, attended the prom, and graduated high school, college-bound. It hadn't been all perfect, of course. Six weeks ago, she'd had broken up with Ashley, but it had nothing to do with what had happened that night, the night she could never forget. Most of the time, she was able to keep the memory locked away, but every now and then, at odd times, it all came back to her with visceral force. The images never changed or faded, the images never blurred around the edges. As though viewing it through someone else's eyes, she would see herself running up the beach and grabbing Oliver as he stared at the raging fire.

_What the hell did you do? _she remembered screaming.

_It's not my fault! _Oliver had screamed back.

It was only then, however, that Lilly realized they weren't alone. In the distance, she noticed Rico, Mikayla, Teddy and Lance, watching them, and she knew at once they'd seen everything that happened. They knew...

As soon as Lilly grabbed for her cell phone, Oliver stopped her. _Don't call the police! I told you it was an accident! _His expression was pleading. _Come on, man! You owe me!_

News coverage had been extensive the first couple of days, and Lilly had watched the segments and read the articles in the paper, her stomach in knots. It was one thing to cover for an accidental fire. Maybe she could have done that. But someone had been injured that night, and she felt a sickening surge of guilt whenever she drove by the site. It didn't matter that the church was being rebuilt or that the pastor had long since been released from the hospital; what mattered was that she knew what had happened and hadn't done anything about it.

_You owe me_… Those were the words that haunted her the most.

Not simply because she and Oliver had been best friends since kindergarten, but for another, more important reason. And sometimes, in the middle of the night, she would lie awake, hating the truth of those words and wishing for a way to make things right.

Oddly enough, it was the incident at the volleyball game earlier in the day that triggered the memories this time. Or rather, it had been the girl she'd collided with. She hadn't been interested in her apologies, and unlike most girls around here, she hadn't tried to mask her anger. She didn't simmer and she didn't squeal; she was self-possessed in a way that stuck her instantly as different.

After she'd stormed off, they'd finished out the set, and she had to admit she'd missed a couple of shots she ordinarily wouldn't have. Oliver had glared at her and maybe because of the play of light, he'd looked exactly as he had on the night of the fire when Lilly had pulled out her cell phone to call the police. And that was all it took to set those memories loose again.

She'd been able to hold it together until they'd won the game, but after it ended, she'd needed sometime alone. So she'd wandered over to the fairgrounds and stopped at one of those overpriced, impossible to win game booths. She was getting ready to shoot and overinflated basketball at the slightly too high rim when she heard a voice behind her.

"There you are." Ashley said. "Were you avoiding us?" _Yes, _she thought. _Actually, I was._

"No," she answered. "I haven't a shot since the season ended, and I wanted to see how rusty I am."

Ashley smiled. Her white tube top, sandals, and dangly earrings showed off her brown eyes and dark hair to maximum effect. She'd changed into the outfit since the final volleyball game of the tournament. Typical; she was the only girl she'd ever known who carried complete outfit changes as a regular rule, even when she went to the beach. At prom last May, she'd changed three times: one outfit for dinner, another for the dance and a third for the party afterward. She'd actually brought along a suitcase, and after pinning on her corsage and posing for photographs, Lilly had to lug it to the car. Her mother hadn't found it unusual that she packed as though she was heading off on vacation instead of a dance. But maybe that was part of the problem. Ashley had once taken her to glimpse inside her mom's closet; the woman must have had a couple of hundred different pairs of shoes and a thousand different outfits. Her closet could have housed a Buick.

"Don't let me stop you. I'd hate for you to be out a dollar."

Lilly turned away, and after zeroing in on the rim, she sent the ball arching toward the basket. It bounded off the rim and backboard before dropping in. That was one. Two more and she'd actually win a prize.

As the ball rolled back, the carnival worker sneaked a glance at Ashley. Ashley, meanwhile, hadn't seemed to have even noticed the worker's presence.

When the ball rolled down the net and back to Lilly, she picked it up again and glanced at the carnival worker. "Has anyone won today?"

"Of course. Lots of winners every day." He continued to stare at Ashley as he answered. No surprise there. Everyone always noticed Ashley. She was like a flashing neon sign for anyone with an ounce of testosterone.

Ashley took another step forward, pirouetted, and leaned against the booth. She smiled at Lilly again. Ashley had never been one for subtlety. After being crowned homecoming queen, she'd worn the tiara all night.

"You played well today," she said. "And you serve has gotten a lot better."

"Thanks," Lilly answered.

"I think you're almost as good as Oliver."

"No way," She said. Oliver has been playing volleyball since he was six; Lilly had taken up the game only after her freshman year. "I'm quick and I can jump, but I don't have the complete game Oliver does."

"I'm just telling you what I saw."

Focusing on the rim, Lilly exhaled, trying to relax before shooting the ball. It was the same thing her coach had always told her to do at the free throw line, not that it ever seemed to improve her percentage. This time, though, the ball swished through the net. Two for two.

"What are you going to do with the stuffed animal if you win?" she asked.

"I don't know. Do you want it?"

"Only if you want me to have it."

She knew she wanted her to offer it to her as opposed to asking her for it. After two years together, there were few things she didn't know about her. Lilly grabbed the ball, exhaled again, and took her final shot. This one, however, was a touch too hard, and the ball bounced off the back of the rim.

"That was close," the worker said. "You should try again."

"I know when I am beat."

"Tell you what. I'll take a dollar off. Two dollars for three shots."

"That's all right."

"Two dollars and I'll let both of you take three shots." He grabbed the ball, offering it to Ashley. "I'd love to see you give it a try."

Ashley stared at the ball, making it obvious she'd never even contemplated such an idea. Which she probably hadn't.

"I don't think so," Lilly said. "But thanks for the offer." She turned toward Ashley. "Do you know if Oliver is still around?"

"He's at the table with Amber. Or at least that's where they were when I went to find you. I think he likes her."

Lilly headed in that direction, Ashley right behind her.

"So we were talking," Ashley said, sounding almost casual, "and Oliver and Amber thought it might be fun to head over to my place. My parents are in Raleigh for some event with the governor, so we'd have the place to ourselves."

Lilly had known this was coming. "I don't think so," she said.

"Why not?" It's not like anything exciting is happening around here."

"I just don't think it's a good idea."

"Is it because we broke up? It's not like I want us to get back together."

Which is why you came to the tournament, she thought. And got dressed up tonight. And came to find me. And suggested going to your place, since your parents aren't home.

But she didn't say those things. She wasn't in the mood to argue, nor did she want to make things any harder than they already were. She wasn't a bad person; she just wasn't for her.

"I've got to be at work early tomorrow morning, and I spent all day playing volleyball in the," she offered instead. "I just want to go to sleep."

Ashley grabbed her arm, bringing her to a stop. "Why don't you take my calls anymore?"

Lilly said nothing. There was really nothing she could say.

"I want to know what I did wrong," she demanded.

"You didn't do anything wrong."

"Then what is it?"

When she didn't answer, she gave her a beseeching smile. "Just come over and we'll talk about it, okay?"

She knew she deserved an answer. The only problem was that it was an answer she wouldn't want to hear.

"Like I said, I'm just tired."


	5. Chapter 5

Hey ya'll here is the next chapter for you guys, I hope ya all enjoy it, my eyes are now cross eyed but I will work on the next chapter for you guys in a couple of days.

**Chapter 5**

"You're tired," Oliver bellowed. "You told her you were tired and you wanted to go to sleep?"

"Something like that."

"Are you insane?"

Oliver stared at her across the table. Amber and Ashley had long since headed up to the pier to talk, no doubt dissecting everything Lilly had said to Ashley, adding unnecessary drama to a situation that probably should have remained private. With Ashley, though, there was always drama. She had the sudden sense that the summer was going to be a long one.

"I am tired," Lilly said. "Aren't you?"

"Maybe you didn't hear what she was suggesting. Me and Amber, you and Ashley? Her parents place at the beach?"

"She mentioned it."

"And we're still here because...?"

"I already told you."

Oliver shook his head. "No...see, that's where you lose me. You use the 'I'm tired' excuse on your parents when they want you to wash the car, or when they tell you to get up so you can make it to church. Not when it comes to an opportunity like this."

Lilly said nothing. Though Oliver was only a year younger, he'd be a senior at Laney High School in the fall, he often acted as if he was Lilly's older and wiser brother.

_Except that night at the church....._

"See that guy over there at the basketball booth? Now him, I get. He stands there all day trying to get people to play the game so he can earn a little money and buy himself some beer and cigarerres at the end of his shift. Simple. Uncomplicated. Not my kind of life, but one I can understand. But you, I don't get. I mean....Did you see Ashley tonight? She's gorgeous. She looks like that chick on Maxim."

"And?"

"My point is, she's hot."

"I know. We were together for a couple of years, remember?"

"And I'm not saying you have to get back together with her. All I am suggesting is that the four of us head over to her place, have some fun, and see what happens."

Oliver leaned back in his seat. "And by the way? I still don't understand why you broke up with her in the first place. It's obvious she's still into you, and you two always seemed perfect together."

Lilly shooked her head. "We weren't perfect together."

"You've said that before, but what does that mean? Is she, like....psycho or something when you two were alone? What happened? Did you find her standing over you with a butcher knife, or did she howl at the moon when you went to the beach?"

"No, nothing like that. It just didn't work out, thats all."

"It just didn't work out," Oliver repeated. "Can you even hear yourself?"

When Lilly showed no signs of relenting, Oliver leaned across the table. "C'mon, man. Do this for me, then. Live a little. It's summer vacation. Take one for the team."

"Now you sound desperate."

"I am desperate. Unless you agree to go with Ashley tonight, Amber won't go with me. And we're talking about a girl who's ready to 'Romance the Stone.' She wants to 'Free Willy.'"

"I'm sorry. But I can't help you."

"Fine. Ruin my life. Who cares, right?"

"You'll survive." She paused. "You hungry?"

"A little," Oliver grumbled.

"C'mon. Let's get some cheeseburgers."

Lilly got up from the table, but Oliver continued to pout. "You need to practice digging," he said, referring to earlier volleyball games. "You were sending the ball in every direction. It was all I could do to keep us in the games."

"Ashley told me I was as good as you are."

Oliver snorted and pushed up from the table. "She doesn't know what she is talking about."

After standing in line for their food, Lilly and Oliver moved to the condiment stand, where Oliver drenched his burger in ketchup. It squeezed out the sides as Oliver put the bun back on.

"That's disgusting," Lilly commented.

"So get this. There was this guy named Ray Kroc and started this company called McDonald's. Ever heard of it? Anyway, on his original hamburger, in many ways the original American hanburger, mind you, he insisted that ketchup be added. Which should tell you how important it is to the overall taste."

"Keep talking. You're just so facinating. I'm going to get something to drink."

"Get me a bottled water, will you?"

As Lilly walked off, something white flashed by her, heading in Oliver's direction; Oliver saw it, too, and instinctively lunged out of the way, dropping his cheeseburger in the process.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Oliver demanded, spinning around. On the ground lay a wadded up box of French fries. Behind him, Teddy and Lance had their hands stuffed in their pockets. Rico was standing between them, trying and failing to appear innocent.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Rico answered.

"This!" Oliver snarled, kicking the box back at them.

It was the tone, Lilly would later think, that made everyone around them tense. Lilly felt the hair on his neck prickle at the palpable, almost physical dislocation of air and space, a tremor that promised violence.

Violence that Rico abviously wanted.....

As if he were baiting her.

Lilly saw a father scoop up his son and move away, while Ashley and Amber, back from the pier, froze on the outskirts. Off to the side, Lilly recognized Galadriel--she called herself Mikayla these days--circling closer.

Oliver glared at them, his jaw clenching. "You know, I'm getting sick and tired of your crap."

"Whatcha gonna do?" Rico smirked. "Shoot a bottle rocket at me?"

That was all it took. As Oliver took a sudden step forward, Lilly pushed her way frantically through the crowd, trying to reach her friend in time.

Rico didn't move. Not good. Lilly knew he and his friends were capable of anything...and worst of all, they knew what Oliver had done...

But Oliver, in a fury, didn't seem to care. As Lilly surged forward, Teddy and Lance fanned out, drawing Oliver into their midst. He tried to close the gap, but Oliver was moving too quickly, and suddenly everything seemed to happen at once. Rico took a half step backward as Teddy kicked over a stool, forcing Oliver to jump out of the way. He slammed into a table, toppling it. Oliver caught his balance and balled his hands into fists. Lance closed in from the side. As Lilly forced her way forward, gaining momentum, she vaguely heard the wailing sounds of a toddler. Breaking free of the crowd, she veered toward Lance when all at once a girl stepped forward into the fray.

"Just stop!" the girl shouted, thrusting her arms out. "Knock it off. All of you!"

Her voice was surprisingly loud and authoritative, enough to make Lilly stop in her tracks. Everyone else froze, and in the sudden silence, the cries of the toddler sounded shrill. The girl pivoted, glaring at each of the brawlers in turn, and as soon as Lilly saw the purple streak in her hair, she realized exactly where she'd seen her before. Only now she was wearing an oversize T-shirt with a fish on the front.

"The fight's over! There is no fight! Can't you see this kid is hurt?"

Challenging them to contradict her, she pushed her way between Oliver and Rico and stooped to the crying toddler, who had been knocked over in the commotion. He was three or four, and his shirt was pumpkin orange. When the girl spoke to him, her voice was soft, her smile reassuring.

"Are you okay, sweetie? Where's your mom? Let's go find her, okay?"

The toddler seemed focus momentarily on her shirt.

"This is Nemo," she said. "He got lost, too. Do you like Nemo?"

Off to the side, a panic stricken woman holding a baby pushed through the crowd, oblivious to the tension in the air. "Jason? Where are you? Have you seen a little boy? Blond hair, orange shirt?"

Relief crossed her featuresas soon as she spotted him. She adjusted the baby on her hip as she rushed to his side. "You can't run off like that, Jason!" she cried. "You scared me. Are you okay?"

"Nemo," he said, pointing at the girl.

The mother turned, noticing the girl for the first time. "Thank you, he just wandered off when I was changing the baby's diaper and...."

"It's okay," the girl said, shaking her head. "He's fine."

Lilly watched the mother lead her kids away, then she turned back to the girl, noticing the kind way she smiled as the young boy toddled off. Once the'd moved far enough away, however, the girl suddenly seemed to realize that everyone in the crowd was staring at her. She crossed her arms, self conscious when the crowd began to part for a rapidly approaching police officer.

Rico quickly murmered something to Oliver before melting back into the crowd. Teddy and Lance did the same. Mikayla turned to follow them as well, and surprising Lilly, the girl with the purple streak reached out to grab her arm.

"Wait! Where are you going?" she called out.

Mikayla shook her arm free, walking backward. "Bower's Point."

"Where's that?"

"Just head down the beach. You'll find it." Mikayla turned and rushed after Rico.

The girl seemed unsure what to do. By then the tension, so thick only moments before, was dissipating as quickly as it had arisen. Oliver righted the table and headed toward Lilly just as the girl was approached by a man he assumed was her father.

"There you are!" he called out with a mixture of relief and exasperation. "We've been looking for you. You ready to go?" The girl, who'd been watching Mikayla, was obviously unhappy to see him.

"No," she said simply. With that, she strode into the crowd, heading for the beach. A young boy walked up to the father.

"I guess she's not hungry," the boy offered.

The man put his hand on the boy's shoulder, watching as she descended the steps to the beach without a backward glance. "I guess not," he said.

"Can you believe that?" Oliver raged, pulling Lilly away from the scene she'd been observing so closely. Oliver was stilled hyped up, the adrenaline surging. "I was about to pound that freak."

"Uh....yeah," she responded. She shook her head. "Im not sure Teddy and Lance would have let you."

"They wouldn't have done anything. Those guys are all show."

Lilly wasn't so sure about that, but she didn't say anything.

Oliver took a breath. "Hold up. Here comes the cop."

The officer approached them slowly, obviously trying to gauge the situation.

"What's going on here?" he demanded.

"Nothing, officer," Oliver answered, sounding demure.

"I heard there was a fight."

"No, sir."

The officer waited for more, his expression skeptical. Neither Oliver nor Lilly said anything. By then, the condiment area was filling with people going about their business. The officer surveyed the scene, making sure he wasn't missing anything, then suddenly his face lit up with recongnition at the sight standing behind Lilly.

"Is that you Robbie?" he called out.

Lilly watched him stride off toward the girl's father.

Ashley and Amber sidled up to them. Amber's face was flushed. "Are you okay?" she fluttered.

"I'm fine," Oliver answered.

"That guy's crazy. What happened? I didn't see how it started."

"He threw something at me, and I wasn't going to put up with it. I'm sick and tired of the way that guy acts. He thinks everyone's afraid of him and that he can do whatever he wants, but the next time he tries, it's not going to be pretty..."

Lilly tuned him out. Oliver was always a big talker; he did the same thing during volleyball matches, and Lilly had learned long ago to ignore it.

She turned away, catching sight of the officer chatting with the girl's dad, wondering why the girl had been so intent on getting away from her father. And why she was hanging out with Rico. She wasn't like them, and she somehow doubted she knew what she was getting into with them. As Oliver went on, assuring Amber that he could easily have handled the three of them, Lilly found herself straining to overhear the police officer's conversation with the girl's father.

"Oh, hey, Pete," the father said. "What's going on?"

"Same old stuff," the officer responded. "Doing my best to keep things under control out here. How's the window coming?"

"Slowly."

"That's what you said the last time I asked."

"Yeah, but not I've got a secret weapon. This is my son, Jackson. He's going to be my assistant this summer."

"Yeah? Good for you, little man...Wasn't your daughter supposed to come down here, too, Robbie?"

"She's here," the father said.

"Yeah, but she left again," the boy added. "She's pretty mad at dad."

"Sorry to hear that."

Lilly watched the father point toward the beach. "Do you have any idea where they might be going?"

The officer squinted as he scanned the waterline. "Could be anywhere. But a couple of those kids are bad news. Especially Rico. Trust me, you don't want her keeping company with him."

Oliver was still boasting to a rapt Amber and Ashley. Blocking him out, Lilly suddenly felt the urge to call out to the police officer. She knew it wasn't her place to say anything. She didn't know the girl, didn't know why she'd stormed off in the first place. Maybe she had a good reason. But as she saw the concern crease her dad's face, she recalled her patience and kindess when she'd rescued the toddler, and the words were out before she could stop them.

"She went to Bower's Point," she announced.

Oliver stopped talking in midsentence, and Ashley turned to her with a frown. The other three studied her uncertainly.

"Your daughter, right?" When the father nodded slightly, she went on. "She's going to Bower's Point."

The officer continued to stare at her, then turned back to the father. "When I finish up here, I'll go talk to her and see if I can convince her to go home, okay."

"You don't have to do that, Pete."

The officer continued to study the group in the distance. "I think in this instance, it's better if I go."

Inexplicably, Lilly felt a strange wave of relief. It must have shown, because when she turned back toward her friends, each of them was staring at her.

"What the hell was that all about?" Oliver demanded.

Lilly didn't answer. She couldn't, because she didn't really understand it herself.

Under normal circumstances, Miley probably would have appreciated an evening like this. In New York, the lights from the city made it impossible to see many stars, but here, it was just the opposite. Even with the layer of marine haze, she could clearly make out the Milky Way, and directly to the south, Venus glowed brightly. The waves crashed and rolled rhythmically along the beach, and on the horizon, she could see the faint lights of half a dozen shrimp boats.

But the circumstances weren't normal. As she stood on the porch, she glared at the officer, livid beyond belief.

No, change that. She wan't just livid. She was seething. What had happened was so...overprotective, so over the top, she could still barely process it. Her first thought was simply to hitchhike to the bus station and buy herself a ticket to New York. She wouldn't tell her dad or her mom; she'd call Joannie. Once she was there, she would figure out what to do bext. No matter what she decided, it couldn't be any worse than this.

But that wasn't possible. Not with Officer Pete here. He stood behind her now, making sure she went inside.

She still couldn't believe it. How could her dad, her own flesh and blood father, do something like this? She was almost an adult, she hadn't been doing anything wrong, and it wasn't even midnight. What was the problem? Why did he have to turn this into something far bigger than it was? Oh sure, at first Officer Pete had made it sound like it had been an ordinary, run-of-the-mill order to vacate their spot on Bower's Point, something that hadn't surprised the other, but then he's turned to her. Zeroed in on her specifically.

"I'm taking you home," he'd said, making it sound as if she were eight years old.

"No thanks," she responded.

"Then I'll have to arrest you in vagrancy charges, and have your dad bring you home."

It dawned on her then that her dad had asked the police to bring her home, and there was an instant when she was frozen in mortification.

Sure, she'd had problems with her mom, and yeah, she'd blown off her curfew now and then. But never, ever, not even once, had her mother sent the police after her.

On the porch, the officer intruded on her thoughts. "Go on in," he prompted, making it fairly clear that if she didn't open the door, he would.

From inside, she could hear the soft sounds of the piano, and she recognized the sonata by Edvard Grieg in E minor. She took a deep breath before opening the dor, then slammed it shut behind her.

Her father stopped playing and looked up as she glared at him.

"You sent the cops after me?"

Her dad said nothing, but his silence was enough.

"Why would you do something like that?" she demanded. "How could you do something like that?"

He said nothing.

"What is it? You didn't want me to have fun? You didn't trust me? You didn't get the fact I don't want to be here?"

Her father folded his hands in his lap. "I know you don't want to be here...."

She took a step forward, still glaring. "So you decide you want to ruin my life, too?"

"Who's Rico?"

"Who cares!" she shouted. "That's not the point! You're not going to monitor every single person I ever talk to, so don't even try."

"I'm not trying...."

"I hate being here! Don't you get that? And I hate you, too!"

She stared at him, her face daring him to contradict her. Hoping he'd try, so she'd be able to say it again.

But her dad said nothing as usual. She hated that kind of weakness. In a fury, she crossed the room toward the alcove, grapped the picture of her playing the piano, the one with her dad beside her on the bench, and hurled it across the room. Though he flinched at the sound of breaking glass, he remained quiet.

"What? Nothing to say?"

He cleared his throat. "Your bedrom's the first door on the right."

She didn't even want to dignify his comment with a response, so she stormed down the hall, determined to have nothing more to do with him.

"Good night, sweetheart," he called out. "I love you."

There was a moment, just a moment, when she cringed at what she'd said to him; but her regret vanished as quickly as it had come. It was as if he hadn't even realized she'd been anngry, she heard him begin to play the piano again, picking up exactly where he had left off.

In the bedroom, not hard to find, considering there were only three doors off the hallway, one to the bathroom and the other to her dad's room, Miley flipped on the light. With a frustrated sigh, she peeled off the ridiculous Nemo T-shirt she'd almost forgotten she was wearing.

It had been the worst day of her life.

Oh, she knew she was being melodramatic about the whole thing. She wasn't stupid. Still, it hadn't been a great one. About the only good think to come out of the whole day was meeting Mikayla, which gave her hope that she'd have at least one person to spend time with this summer.

Assuming, of course, that Mikayla still wanted to spend time with her. After dad's little stunt, even that was in doubt. Mikayla and the rest of them were probably still talking about it. Probably laughing about it. It was the kind of thing Joannie would bring up for years.

The whole thing made her sick to her stomach. She tossed the Nemo shirt into the corner, if she never saw it again, it would be too soon, and began slipping off her concert shirt.

"Before I get too grossed out, you should know I'm in here."

Miley jumped at the sound, whirling around to see Jackson staring at her.

"Get out!" she screamed. "What are you doing in here? This is my room!"

"No, it's our room," Jackson said. He pointed. "See? Two beds."

"I'm not going to share a room with you."

He tilted his head to the side. "You're going to sleep in dad's room?"

She opened her mouth to respond, considered moving to the living room before quickly realizing she wasn't going out there again, then closed her mouth without a word. She stomped toward her suitcase, unzipped the top, and flung open the lid. Anna Karenina lay on top, and she tossed it aside, searching for her pajamas.

"I rode the ferris wheel," Jackson said. "It was pretty cool to be so high. That's how dad found you."

"Great."

"It was awsome. Did you ride it?"

"No."

"You should have. I could see all the way to New York."

"I doubt it."

"I could. I can see pretty far. With my glasses, I mean. Dad said I have eagle eyes."

"Yeah, right."

Jackson said nothing. Instead, he reached for the teddy bear he'd brought with him from home. It was the one he clutched whenever he was nervous, and Miley winced, regretting her words. Sometimes the way he talked made it easy to think of him as an adult, but as he pulled the bear to his chest, she knew she shouldn't have been so harsh. Though he was precocious, though he was verbal to the point of annoyance at times, he was small for his age, more the size of a six or seven year old than a ten year old. It had never been easy for him. He'd been born three months prematurely, and he suffered from asthma, poor vision, and a lack of fine motor coordination. She knew kids his age could be cruel.

"I didn't mean that. With your glasses, you definitely have eagle eyes."

"Yeah, they're pretty good now," he mumbled, but when he turned away and faced the wall, she winced again. He was a sweet kid. A pain in the ass sometimes, but she knew he didn't have a mean bone in him.

She went over to his bed and sat beside him. "Hey," she said. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean it. I'm just having a bad night."

"I know," he said.

"Did you go on any of the other rides?"

"Dad took me on most of them. He almost got sick, but I didn't. And I wasn't scared at all in the haunted house. I could tell the ghosts were fake.

She patted him on the hip. "You've always been pretty brave."

"Yeah," he said. "Like that time when the lights went out in the apartment? You were scared that night. I wasn't scared, though."

"I remember."

He seemed satisfied with her answer. But then he grew quiet, and when he spoke again, his voice was barely above a whisper. "Do you miss mom?" Miley reached for the covers. "Yeah."

"I kind of miss her, too. And I didn't like being here alone."

"Dad was in the other room," she said.

"I know. But I'm glad you came home anyway."

"Me, too."

He smiled before looking worried again. "Do you think mom is doing okay?"

"She's fine," she assured him. She pulled up the covers. "But I know she misses you, too."

In the morning, with sunlight peeking through the curtains, it took Miley a few seconds to realize where she was. Blinking at the clock, she thought, _You've got to be kidding me._

Eight o'clock? In the morning? In the summer?

She plopped back down, only to find herself staring at the ceiling, already knowing sleep was out of the question. Not with the sun shooting daggers through the windows. Not with her father already hammering on the piano in the living room. As she suddenly remembered what had happened last night, the anger she felt at what her father had done resurfaced.

Welcome to another day in paradise.

Outside the window, she heard the distant roar of engines. She rose from the bed and pulledaside the curtain, only to jump back, startled at the sight of a raccoon sitting atop a torn bag of garbage. While the strewn garbage was gross, the raccoon was cute, and she tapped the glass, trying to get its attention.

It was only then that she noticed the bars on the window.

Bars. On. The. Window.

Trapped.

Gritting her teeth, she whirled around and marched into the living room. Jackson was watching cartoons and eating a bowl of ceral; her dad glanced up but continued to play.

She put her hands on her hips, waiting for him to stop. He didn't. She noticed that the picture she'd thrown was back in the place atop the piano, albeit without the glass.

"You can't keep me locked up all summer," she said. "It's not going to happen."

Her dad glanced up, though he continued to play. "What are you talking about?"

"You put bars on the window! Like I'm supposed to be your prisoner?"

Jackson continued to watch the cartoon. "I told you she'd be mad," he commented.

Robbie shook his head, his hands continuing to move across the keyboard. "I didn't put them up. They came with the house."

"I don't believe you."

"They did," Jackson said. "To protect the art."

"I'm not talking to you, Jackson!" She turned back to her dad. "Let's get one thing straight. You're not going to spend this summer treating me like I'm still a little girl! I'm eighteen years old!"

"You won't be eighteen untill August twentieth," Jackson said behind her.

"Would you please stay out of this!" She whirled around to face him. "This is between me and dad."

Jackson frowned. "But you're not eighteen yet."

"Thats not the point!"

"I thought you forgot."

"I didn't forget! I'm not stupid."

"But you said.."

"Would you just shut up for a second?" she said, unable to hide her exasperation. She swiveled her gaze back to her dad, who'd continued to play, never missing a note. "What you did last night was..." She stopped, unable to put all that was going on, all that had happened, into words. "I'm old enough to make my own decisions. Don't you get that? You gave up the right to tell me what to do when you walked out the door. And would you please listen to me!"

Abruptly, her dad stopped playing.

"I don't like this little game you're playing."

He seemed confused. "What game?"

"This! Playing the piano every minute I'm here! I don't care how much you want me to play! I'm never going to play the piano again! Especially not for you!"

"Okay."

She waited for more, but there was nothing.

"That's it?" she asked. "Thats all you're going to say?"

Her dad seemed to debate how to answer. "Do you want breakfest? I made some bacon."

"Bacon?" she demanded. "You made bacon?"

"Uh oh," Jackson said.

Her dad glanced at Jackson.

"She's a vegetarian, dad," he explained.

"Really?" he asked.

Jackson answered for her. "For three years. But she's weird sometimes, so it makes sense."

MIley stared at them in amazement, wondering how the conversation had been hijacked. This wasn't about bacon, this was about what happened last night. "Let's get one thing straight," she said. "If you ever send the police to bring me home again, I won't just refuse to play the piano. I won't just go home. I'll never, ever speak to you again. And if you don't believe me, try me. I've already gone three years without talking to you, and it was the easiest thing I've ever done."

With that, she stomped back to her room. Twenty minutes later, after showering and changing, she was out the door.

Her first thought as she trudged through the sand was that she should have worn shorts.

It was already hot, the air thick with humidity. Up and down the beach, people were already lying on towels or playing in the surf. Near the ier, she spotted half a dozen surfers floating on their boards, waiting for the perfect wave.

Above them, at the head of the pier, the festival was no more. The rides had been disassembled and the booths had already been hauled away, leaving behind only scattered garbage and food remnants. Moving on, she wandered through the town's small business district. None of the stores were open yet, but most were the kind she would never set foot in anyway, touristy beach shops, a couple of clothing stores that seemed to specialize in skirts and blouses that her mom might wear, and a Burger King and McDonald's, two places she refused to enter on principle. Add in the hotel and half a dozen upscale resturants and bars, and that was pretty much it. In the end, the only interesting locales were a surf shop, a music store, and old fashioned diner where she could imagine hanging out with friends....if she ever made any.

She headed back to the beach and skipped down the dune, noting that the crowds had multiplied. It was gorgeous, breezy day, the sky overhead was a deep, cloudless blue. If Joannie had been here, she'd even consider spending the day in the sun, but Joannie wasn't here and she wasn't here and she wasn't about to put her suit on and go sit by herself. But what else was there to do?

Maybe she should try to get a job. It would give her an excuse to be out of the house most of the day. She hadn't seen any "Help Wanted" signs in the windows downtown, but someone had to be hiring, right?

"Did you make it home okay? Or did the cop end up making a pass at you?"

Looking behind her, Miley saw Mikayla squinting up at her from the dune. Lost in thought, she hadn't even noticed her.

"No, he didn't make a pass at me."

"Oh, so yuo made a pass at him?"

Miley crossed her arms. "Are you done?"

Mikayla shrugged, her expression mischievous, and Miley smiled.

"So what happened after I left? Anything exciting?"

"No. The guys took off and I don't know where they went. I ended up just crashing at Bower's Point."

"You didn't go home?"

"No." She got to her feet, brushing the sand from her jeans. "Do you have any money?"

"Why?"

Mikayla stood straight. "I haven't eaten since yesturday morning. I'm kind of hungry."

Lilly stood in the well beneath the Ford Explorer in her uniform, watching the oil drain while simultaneously doing her best to ignore Oliver, something easier said than done. Oliver had been haranging her about the previous evening on and off since they'd arrived at work that morning

"See, you were thinking about this all wrong," Oliver continued, trying yet another tack. He retrieved three cans of oil and set them on the shelve beside him. "There's a difference between hooking up and getting back together."

"Aren't we done with this yet?"

"We would be if you had any sense. But from where I stand, it's obvious you were confused. Ashley doesn't want to get back together with you."

"I wasn't confused," Lilly said. She wiped her hands on a towel. "That's exactly what she was asking."

"That's not what Amber told me."

Lilly set aside the towel and reached for her water bottle. Her dad's shop specialized in brake repairs, oil changes, tune ups, and front end alignments, and her dad always wanted the place to look as though the floor had been waxed and the place just opened for business. Unfortunately, air conditioning hadn't been quite as important to him, and in the summer, the temperature was somewhere between the Mojave and the Sahara. She took a long drink, finishing the bottle before trying to get through to Oliver again. Oliver was far and away the most stubborn person she'd ever known. The guy could seriously drive her nuts.

"You don't know Ashley the way I do," she sighed. "And besides, it's over and done. I don't know why you keep talking about it."

"You mean aside from the fact that Harry didn't meet Sally last night? Because I'm your friend and I care about you. I want you to enjoy this summer. I want to enjoy this summer. I want to enjoy Amber."

"So go out with her, then."

"If only it was that easy. See, last night I suggested the same thing. But Ashley was so upset that Amber didn't want to leave her."

"I'm really sorry it didn't work out."

Oliver was dubious. "Yeah I can tell."

By that point, the oil had drained. Lilly grabbed the cans and headed up the steps while Oliver stayed below to replace the plug and dump the used oil into the recycling barrel. As Lilly opened the can and set the funnel, she glanced at Oliver below.

"Hey, by the way, did you see the girl who stopped the fight?" she asked. "The one who helped the little boy find his mom?"

It took a moment for the words to register. "You mean the vampire chick in the cartoon shirt?"

"She's not a vampire."

"Yeah, I saw her. On the short side, ugly purple streak in her hair, black fingernail polish? You poured your soda over her, remember? She thought you smelled."

"What?"

"I'm just saying," he said, reaching for the pan. "You didn't notice her expression after you slammed into her, but I did. She couldn't get away from you fast enough. Hence, you probably smelled."

"She had to buy a new shirt."

"So?"

Lilly added the second can. "I don't knwo. She just surprised me. And I haven't seen her around here before."

"I repeat: So?"

The thing was, Lilly wasn't exactly sure why she was thinking about the girl. Particulary considering how little she knew about her. Yeah, she was pretty, she'd noticed that right off, despite the purple hair and dark mascara, but the beach was full of pretty girls. Nor was it the way she'd stopped the fight in its tracks. Instead, she kept coming back to the way she'd treated the little boy who'd fallen. She'd glimpsed a surprising tenderness beneath her rebellious exterior, and it had puqued her curiousity.

She wasn't like Ashley at all. And it wasn't that Ashly was a bad person, because she wasn't. But there was something superficial about Ashley, even is Oliver didn't want to believe it. In Ashley's world, everyone and everything was put into neat little boxes: popular or not, expensive or cheap, rich or poor, beautiful or ugly. And she'd eventually grown tired of her shallow value judgments and her inability to accept or appreciate anything in between.

But the girl with the purple streak in her hair......

She knew instinctively that she wasn't that way. She couldn't be absolutely sure, of course but she'd bet on it. She didn't put others into neat little boxes because she didn't put herself in one, and that struck her as refreshing and different, especially when compared with the girl's she'd known at Laney. Especially Ashley.

Though things were busy at the garage, her thoughts kept drifting back to her more often then she expected.

Not all the time. But enough to make her realize that for whatever reason, she definitely wanted to get to know her a little better, and she found herself wondering whether she would see her again.


End file.
